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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27091723">Step Nine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986'>samchandler1986</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>GLOW (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, post s3 fix it fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 03:15:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27091723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Make direct amends to people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Terminal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s going to be a busy flight, but Ruth has several seats to herself in the packed transit lounge. Not because she’s crying. Not anymore. She <em>has</em> cried – has wept openly for the life she’s giving up on. Somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic a kindly air hostess asked if she was okay and bought her more tissues. It was all she could do to nod and keep the sobs in her chest, her shoulders shaking with grief instead. But now... Now she just feels numb. Staring at nothing. Her face red and puffy from those tears shed into sodden tissues. Raw grief is palpable on her and fellow passengers avert their eyes, awkward. Maintaining an exclusion zone of empty chairs.</p><p>Maybe she’s just lost her mind. Things play out in the theatre of her imagination so <em>clearly</em>, but twist so cruelly when she tries to make them reality. She sighs. Probably she should shut out the rest of humanity with some headphones or a paperback book. But she finished her dog-eared copy of <em>The Accidental Tourist </em>on the journey out, and her Walkman died in Spain−</p><p>
  <em>(“Ruth?” </em>
</p><p><em>Russell looks shocked to see her; </em><em>genuine</em> I-can’t-believe-my-eyes<em> confusion on his face rather than the elation she was hoping for. The wheels are already coming off her imagined scenario. </em></p><p><em>“Hi,” she squeaks. Still trying to play the part of the loving, quirky girlfriend; soft on him enough to have flown all this way in secret. She gives him a shy smile. “Uh…</em>Feliz Navidad<em>?” </em></p><p>
  <em>“Ruth… why the hell didn’t you say you were coming out here?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She flinches slightly at his tone. It’s Russell saying it: the words are softer from his mouth than they might be from Debbie – or Sam – but they still sting. “Um, so I could surprise you for Christmas?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She sounds shrill, even to her own ears. Defensive. And it’s enough to turn this moment instantly from the happy ending of some romantic comedy into the creepy denouement of a dark thriller. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, I am… definitely surprised,” he manages. </em>
</p><p><em>And even though he’s trying hard not to snap, she sees with crystal clarity: this is another terrible mistake. Like every other turn she’s tried to take recently, to get out of the rut of a life that’s slowly stifling her</em> <em>—)</em></p><p>Hot, sick shame rises in her throat. She swallows thickly and rises to her feet. Walking quickly to the nearest bathroom to throw up; nothing but bile and water. She’s had no appetite for days. Can’t, in fact, remember the last thing she ate.</p><p>She splashes cold water on her face. Giving herself at least the superficial appearance of someone sane and sensible before she returns to the lounge. It’s even busier now. The empty seats are filled. She dithers for a moment, debating the merits of squatting down on the carpet tiles, when something catches in the corner of her eye. Some motion memory; a familiar form in the sea of strangers.</p><p>She looks up, and her innards lurch unpleasantly at the impossible sight of Sam Sylvia. Lip curling at the assembled throng and shaking his head. She stands frozen; in shock. Wondering for a long moment if he’s even <em>real</em>. Hands on his hips, scowl in place. The same version of himself that lives in her memory.</p><p>He hasn’t seen her, not yet. Her stomach contracts again as Justine comes to join him. Both of them staring disconsolate at the announcement board by the gate. They’re so alike, these days. The way they stand; the way they frown.</p><p>His gaze flickers, taking in the assembled crowd. Catching on her. And for a beat he just <em>stares</em>. Maybe he doesn’t recognise her, she thinks wildly. Maybe she’s cried herself invisible, somehow—</p><p>“What the <em>fuck</em>?”</p><p>She can lipread his words even if she can’t hear them at this distance. And she should smile and walk over to say hello, she thinks. Or maybe she should lower her gaze and storm away. Make it clear she never wants to speak to either of them ever, ever again.</p><p>She should definitely do <em>something</em>. Something other than stand here paralysed, goggling back at him.</p><p>It’s Justine, ironically, that ends their impasse. Trotting over, beaming like everything is fine. Like she didn’t fuck everything up with her stupid fucking movie. “Oh, my God! Ruth! What’re you doing here?”</p><p>“I, um, I’m flying back to Los Angeles,” she creaks. “What about you? Where are you…?” Because it’s automatic, to turn the question around. A routine politeness. She’s doesn’t really want to know; doesn’t really care. But if she keeps her eyes on Justine she can hardly see Sam, still standing at a distance. His scowl solidified, jaw clenching.</p><p>“Sacramento,” Justine continues, oblivious. “We were just in New York meeting some of the guys from <em>Universal</em>…” Too late, she realises the awkwardness of her tale. “Um. Anyway, do you—?”</p><p>“That sounds great!” Suddenly there’s a tennis ball of rage in her throat, choking her. “I just have to, um, I have to run and check—nice to see you!”</p><p>She stumbles away, back to the security of the bathroom. Locking herself in a stall and knitting her fingers into her hair. Hot tears spill once again, her body heaving, until the anger passes and she feels half-herself. She can just stay in here, folding tissue paper and blotting under her eyes. Wait for the final call and then hopefully board and disembark without having to see either of them again.</p><p>It almost works. It <em>would</em> have worked, if the flight wasn’t overbooked.</p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen we are looking for volunteers to board a later flight,” comes the tannoy announcement. And what’s to lose, she thinks feverishly. She’s got nowhere to go in a hurry. Why not take an overnight in an anonymous hotel room? A long dark night of the soul feels appropriate.</p><p>Only afterwards, waiting in the cold for the taxi transfer kerbside, does she realise she’s done it again. Imagining her life is a movie. Revelatory moments are for the shiny people, she reminds herself bitterly. The Debbies and the Justines of this world. What <em>she</em> has to look forward too, inevitably, is a crappy night’s sleep on a lumpy mattress and a rattling AC unit.</p><p>She tightens the straps on her rucksack and tucks her chin against the biting wind. Best to just be grateful for the bed. Back in LA there’s only the short-term offer of a near-stranger’s couch waiting, while she sorts out her sub-letting nightmare. There’s a lump in her throat again at the thought. In thirteen years, she’s only travelled in a circle. Back to the grind of audition after audition; crappy one-line roles and… and maybe not even that anymore. She’s not twenty-two and a relative unknown. She’s the wrong side of thirty, with more wrestling than actual acting on her recent CV.</p><p>The first flakes of fresh snow flurry on the next gust of wind. Maybe she <em>should</em> just go back to Las Vegas. Eat crow again, and find out what the fuck is really going on with Debbie and Bash and their stolen TV network. Sheila, at least, will be sympathetic about the Spain debacle, even if she won’t understand it. And no one else has to know.</p><p>But the thought of going back twists somewhere in her gut. Yeah, Debbie might forgive another betrayal. Their awful goodbye on the jetway is hardly the worst thing their friendship has endured in recent years. Yet there’s something that burns inside at the memory of her words, tossed out so casually.</p><p><em>If</em><em> being an actor was going to happen for you it would have by now</em>.</p><p><em>Failure</em>, hisses the translator in her own head. <em>Pitiable</em>.</p><p>Not unlucky, not overlooked. <em>Unworthy</em>.</p><p>The airport doors swish again behind her, a blast of warmer air and a crowd of chattering women coming to join her in the wait for transport. Somehow the ebb and flow of their banal conversation, their outbursts of raucous laughter, only make her feel worse. It reminds her of the dressing room in Vegas; of watching matches on the bleachers in the gym. It’s a relief when the bus finally pulls up; the creaking hiss of elderly hydraulics heralding its opening.</p><p>“Can I get on?” she asks the stony-faced driver.</p><p>“No. You need to wait for the rep,” he replies, shaking his head. “Make sure this is the right transport for you.”</p><p>“Right…”</p><p>The snow is getting heavier, feathery flakes that swirl and settle in her hair when the wind catches them. She’s shivering now, grinding her teeth together to stop them chattering. Another breath of hot air washes across sidewalk, as the airline rep the driver foretold emerges, clipboard in hand. “Hey folks! Let’s see, I should have Adams, party of five…?”</p><p>Of course, waiting here patiently has earned her nothing than better odds on hypothermia. They’re proceeding alphabetically, and so Ruth Wilder finds herself bottom of the pile for no particular reason yet <em>again</em>.</p><p>And then the doors open for a third time, as she's clenching her jaw so hard her teeth might crack, and the evening reaches its <em>true</em> nadir. Behind the beleaguered man with the clipboard stands Sam. He has a battered leather holdall in hand, and a similar look of dismay to the one surely pasted across her own face.</p><p>“Fuck,” he says, and for a moment she thinks he might just turn tail and head back inside. But clearly he’s made the same stupid decision she has, condemning himself to a night in a cheap hotel.</p><p>She folds her arms and looks away, at her feet, as the rep continues his count of people onto the bus. If she doesn’t look at Sam maybe he’ll just disappear. Or <em>she</em> will−</p><p>“Okay, McNamee, Sylvia, Thompson and… Wilder?”</p><p>
  <em>God damn it. </em>
</p><p>“Mm-hm?” she affirms, looking very intently at the rep and only the rep.</p><p>“You’re all booked into the Welcome Lodge on the other side of town, so your transport will be along in just a few moments.”</p><p>“Wait, we’re not – I can’t catch <em>this</em> bus?” She’s aware she sounds almost unhinged, but is long past caring.</p><p>“I’m sorry ma’am,” replies the rep, with the air of a man about to make his escape to the land of <em>not-my-problem.</em> “I promise it really will be just another few minutes…”</p><p>With that, he climbs the steps of the bus, the doors snapping shut before she can quite get her anger out of her mouth. “Uh−!” she manages, pointlessly, as he departs in a cloud of evil smelling fumes.</p><p>She’s still stupefied when the stranger to her left speaks. “Well, this is the last time <em>I’m</em> travelling <em>Pan-Am</em>…”</p><p>“Tell me about it! It was like this on my way out, too. Delays at LaGuardia. They almost cancelled my connection. And don’t even get me <em>started</em> on my baggage!”</p><p>“Right! It’s like they take a fragile label as a suitcase-toss challenge or something!”</p><p>“I’m going to make a complaint at the desk. This is the last straw.”</p><p>She can’t stop herself. As the story of Misters McNamee and Thompson unfolds its opening chapter, she can’t quite help but look at Sam. His look of obvious contempt at the two besuited businessmen railing against poor service is <em>exactly</em> what she knew it would be. The slight shake of his head; the way his eyes narrow behind his glasses.</p><p>He catches her eye, as the men stride back inside to unload their rage on some luckless airline employee, and sighs. “So, why the fuck are you here? Don’t you have a connection to make back to Las Vegas?”</p><p>“No,” she sayss. It comes out cold and hard. There’s no-one she wants to explain her current situation to <em>less</em> than Sam right now.</p><p>“Oh. Right,” he replies. All drawn out, like she’s solved a minor puzzle for him. As if there’s more loaded into her flat denial than she thought. Maybe there is; he’s always had a tendency towards the annoyingly perceptive, and he knows her far, far too well at this point.</p><p>Somehow, this realisation only makes her more angry. “Why are <em>you</em> here?” she shoots back. “Don’t you have… important things to be doing with Justine?”</p><p>“She got randomly selected for removal when there weren’t enough volunteers. I swapped so she wouldn’t miss Christmas take-two with Rosalie.” He considers things for a moment. “And, you know, so I could avoid you.” </p><p>She merely shakes her head in response to this spite, returning her gaze to her feet rather than take his bait. What more do they have to say to one another? She rubs her arms, pointlessly, as the wind drives more snow across the sidewalk to swirl around her sneakers.</p><p>“So, is your plan to freeze to death out here, or what?”</p><p>Her head snaps up; fixing him with all her fury. “I just don’t want to miss the next bus!”</p><p>“Jesus. They’re not going to just leave without you,” he scoffs.</p><p>“They… might.” It sounds pathetic, even to her. “Why do you care, anyway?”</p><p>“I don’t.”  </p><p>He spits it back easily enough, but for the first time she feels like she’s landed a blow under his armour. <em>I don’t believe you</em>, she doesn’t say. If he didn’t care, at least a little, he wouldn’t still be standing here. “So, what, you think we should just go back inside and find coffee?”</p><p>He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t fucking know.”</p><p>She opens and closes her mouth, managing only a noise of frustration rather than any kind of sensible response. “Well, I… don’t have a lot of the right currency on me right now,” she says. Less of the come-back she was aiming for, more a confession. “So… that’s – that’s the situation for me.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”</p><p>“You don’t have to− to <em>pity</em> me−”</p><p>“Right. Because there’s nothing at all pitiable about you standing out here shivering because they've closed the goddamn <em>bureau de change</em>,” he sneers.</p><p>“I−I don’t−”</p><p>He shakes his head as she struggles for words. “Look. Just… just wait here."</p><p>There’s a part of her that considers leaving nonetheless, once he’s disappeared back inside the terminal. But it would be petty and self-destructive, she tells herself. She'd only wind up missing the bus. That’s why she’s staying put, and no other reason.</p><p>He returns with two paper cups, steaming in the cold air. “Here,” he says, thrusting one at her. “Before you actually turn blue.”</p><p>It’s hot chocolate rather than coffee, her nose reports. Something, very feebly, seems to stir in the pit of her stomach at this realisation. “Thank you.”</p><p>“It’s fine.” He takes a sip of his own drink. “You know, we could just wait inside the door.”</p><p>She nods. “Yeah. Maybe they’re just… delayed in the snow.”</p><p>“Yeah," he says, sounding doubtful. "Maybe.”</p><p>There’s a bench inside, positioned where they can sit and stare out of the doors. They take either end of it, wordless. Sipping their drinks, as feeling slowly returns to her frozen toes.</p><p>“Where’d you go, anyway?”</p><p>She swirls the remaining contents of her cup, debating the merits of telling him she just doesn’t want to talk about it. “Spain,” she says instead.</p><p>“Wow. Was that for family, or−?”</p><p>“Russell… had a movie shoot.” She keeps her eyes firmly on the gritty dregs of chocolate. “So, I... quit GLOW and flew out to Europe to… wind up breaking up with him.” The silence that follows this pronouncement surprises her. She risks looking up from her cup to find him frowning at her in genuine confusion. “What?” she says eventually, wrong-footed by his decision not to crow at her suffering or further punish her with scorn.</p><p>It's his turn to struggle for words. “Why?” he says, eventually. </p><p>“What do you mean, <em>why</em>? I – I kissed you, I−”</p><p>“Not why did you break up with that fucking idiot! Jesus Christ. I meant why do you take a hammer to your life and fuck things up for yourself with everyone who cares about you?”</p><p>“I didn’t do this to myself <em>deliberately</em>−!”</p><p>“Really, Ruth?! This all just <em>happened</em> to you? Is <em>that</em> what you think?”</p><p>She stares at him, mouth open. “I… I don’t know,” she lies, something like shame now, burning in her cheeks.</p><p>It’s his turn to look away, shaking his head again. “Yeah, you do. Fuck.”</p><p>Somehow, he’s found a way to sink her spirits even lower than they were in the transit lounge. She can no longer look at him either, and tries to focus eyes blurring with tears back on her cup. “I’m sorry,” she manages thickly. </p><p>“What for?”</p><p>“For losing my temper with you?” she winces. “It was… I was childish and-and−”</p><p>“It doesn’t fucking matter, Ruth. Not anymore.”  </p><p>She nods, tears overspilling onto her cheeks now. “Right. Right. You're right.”</p><p>“Oh, Christ. Here.” He pulls the paper napkins that came with the coffee out of his jacket pocket, handing them over. “Apology accepted.”</p><p>She wipes her eyes. “Really?”</p><p>“Yeah. I mean, I’ve been making amends recently too. You were just a little… way down the list still.”</p><p>She digests this revelation. “Why?”</p><p>“Oh, part of the programme.” He sighs at her continuing confusion. “Trying the whole ‘clean and sober’ thing.”</p><p>“Oh. Wow. That’s−”</p><p>“Yeah, I know.” He drains his coffee. “Figured there’s some stuff I’d actually like to be around for in the next few years.” He shrugs. "Might as well try, right?"</p><p>"Mm," she nods, as if she has any idea what he means. </p><p>More silence follows, though less awkward now, broken by the occasional call for passengers over the tannoy. “So," he says, eventually, "do you think this bus is actually coming, or what...?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Western Lodge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Snow drifts on the wind; sinuous shifting patterns drawn on the dark asphalt. It’s coming down heavy, reflecting orange sodium light and casting the runway outside in an unearthly glow.</p><p>“Ah, fuck,” says Sam, not really under his breath, as the departure boards start to clatter-click in time. Dates and times spinning and resolving; the same word over and over.</p><p>
  <em>Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. </em>
</p><p>The <em>Pan-Am</em> service desk is already under siege by the time they reach it. Mostly family groups; angry men and harassed-looking women, whingeing children. Interspersed with clumps of older people leaning on their luggage trolleys and over-sized suitcases.</p><p>“Jesus.”</p><p>For once, she shares the depth of feeling he loads into the curse. “I can queue? I mean, if you want to−”</p><p>“Nah, fuck it. Come on.”</p><p>“Come… where?”</p><p>“We know where we’re meant to be, right? There’s a room for both of us at the uh… the uh… <em>Fuck</em>! What’s the name of the hotel?”</p><p>For a frozen moment she’s at a loss to recall it too. “The, um… The Western Lodge! I think.”</p><p>“Right! Fuck this bus bullshit. Let’s get a cab over there now, before all these idiots do.” He takes in her agonised expression and rolls his eyes. “I’ll cover it, alright? You can pay me back later.”   </p><p>“I−”</p><p>“Your choice, Ruth! By all means, stay here and re-enact the last fucking helicopter out of Saigon if you want to...”</p><p>It’s her turn to roll her eyes at his turn of phrase, but she follows him outside in the end. There’s already a queue here, too, but it’s moving more quickly than the line at the desk. Maybe it’s the cold hastening people on, she thinks, as her teeth start to chatter again.</p><p>They scramble into a returning car after a few minutes. “Where to?” asks the driver, not unfriendly.</p><p>“The Western Lodge please?”</p><p>“Sure thing.”  They’re already moving as she dutifully plugs in her seat-belt, grateful for the warmth of the cigarette-smoke fug interior.</p><p>She watches out of the window as they stop-start away from the airport, too awkward to make eye-contact across the scuffed leather seat. There’s a blanketing of snow now; a scene that would at least have been festive a week ago. Now it’s just a wintery inconvenience. “How far away <em>is</em> the hotel?” she asks, faux-nonchalant. Internally she’s cringing as the fare ticks ever upwards.</p><p>“’Bout twenty minutes,” replies the driver. “Usually. Might be a little slower with the snow.”</p><p>“Is there a lot forecast?”</p><p>“Seems that way. You folks had your flight cancelled?”</p><p>“Uh, no, we have a connection tomorrow.”</p><p>He makes a doubtful sort of sucking noise through his teeth. “Well, if it’s not too early… maybe they’ll have cleared the runways...”</p><p>“Mm-hm,” she squeaks, screwing her eyes shut like she’s resisting physical pain at this latest revelation. She doesn’t need to look at Sam to know he’s rubbing his eyes under his glasses, wearing a similar grimace.  </p><p>The Western Lodge turns out to be a plain white brick of a building, airport hotel functional. Inside, a janitor on ladders is removing the last vestiges of the Christmas decorations. The young receptionist snaps gum behind the desk, distracted by her papers.</p><p>Ruth turns to Sam, wordlessly offering him first place. He merely shrugs in response and so, shaking her head, she approaches the desk. Drawing in a deep calming breath−</p><p>“Oh, hi!” says the receptionist, looking up. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“Um, Ruth Wilder? I should have a room booked by my airline carrier.”</p><p>“Your flight got cancelled because of the weather?” checks the woman, flicking rapidly through the booking files in front of her.</p><p>“No, it was an… an overbooking.”</p><p>“Huh.” She’s reached the end of her papers, a slight frown creasing between her eyebrows. “Wilder, did you say?”</p><p>“Yep. That’s me,” confirms Ruth, trying to ignore the sinking feeling.</p><p>The receptionist counts more carefully through the slips of paper. “I’m really sorry, we don’t seem to have anyone of that name booked in… Which carrier was it?”</p><p>“Pan-Am?” She can hear the note of hysteria again in her own voice. This is moving beyond farce, into full-blown disaster territory.</p><p>Sam clears his throat, appearing behind her. “Do you have a Sam Sylvia?”</p><p>Another rapid search, another shake of the young woman’s head. “I’ll just go and check in the main office,” she offers, slipping away to some room beyond.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Ruth says softly, pinching the bridge of her nose.</p><p>“Will you relax?”</p><p>“No, I will <em>not</em> just relax!” Anger chokes her for a moment; frustration at his inability to see how ridiculous the situation has become. Somehow, she needs to return to the terminal; bed down for the night on some chairs, perhaps−</p><p>“I’m not going to let them cast you out into the frozen night,” he continues. “I’m not that much of an asshole.” He considers this for a beat. “Well. Anymore.” </p><p>She shakes her head. “You don’t have to do this for me−”</p><p>“I know. Don’t worry. This isn’t some misguided attempt to be nice just so I can try to fuck you. Alright?”</p><p>Of course, the receptionist returns on <em>that</em> declaration, delivered hard and cold as ice. “Hi,” she tries, her blue-liner’d eyes wide. “I’m really sorry - there’s no booking for either Sylvia or Wilder.”</p><p>Her own words flung back at her are still stinging like a slap. Sam holds his look of contempt for another burning second and then turns to the young woman. “Do you have any vacant rooms left for tonight?”</p><p>“Yes, I think we do… Let's see. A double on the south side for seventy dollars? Or we have a couple of twins on the third floor for eighty.”</p><p>He heaves a weary sigh. “I’ll take the double and, uh, one of the twins−”</p><p>“Sam.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The… one twin is fine. I mean, assuming that you don’t mind sharing.”</p><p>The thought of owing him eighty dollars, on top of half a cab fare, along with everything else that's loaded into the history between them is enough to make her feel sick. She’s burned through enough money on foolishness already in recent weeks.</p><p>He sighs again, mouth a line as he makes up his own mind. “Just the twin, then,” he says heavily, digging into the pocket of his jeans for his wallet.  </p><p>Within minutes they are furnished with two keys to room 309. “Thank you−” Ruth tries.</p><p>“I’ll see you later,” he returns, patience worn thin. “Need some fucking air.”</p><p>She nods, an apology somewhere in her throat, but he doesn’t wait to hear it. Turning his back to her and slouching out through the front doors of the lobby.</p><hr/><p>It’s a decent enough room, to her surprise. The beds are large and comfortable; the TV equipped with more than basic cable. There’s even a little balcony, offering a view back towards the frozen airfield, if that’s your idea of a good time. She slides back the glass door and crunches out onto the snow. Cold air knifes through her jacket, her breath steaming. It all feels very surreal. Like she’s fallen through a wardrobe into this winter dystopia. A long way from Spain. And somehow even further from Las Vegas.</p><p>The dark, hopeless feeling washes over her again. <em>Am I wasting my life?</em> She’s tried tarot cards in the desert to find some kind of answer, and imploded three different versions of a happily-ever-after in as many weeks. Futures with Sam, with Debbie, with Russell; all in fragments. And all for <em>what</em> – a return to the endless cycle of hope and rejection she’s spent a decade trapped inside already?</p><p>She touches the rail of the balcony guard, the metal so cold under her bare fingers that it burns.<em> I don’t know what to do any more</em>. Because before, there’s always been one more million-to-one chance. Always something to pin her hopes on, however slim.</p><p>For the first time in a long time there’s just <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>And she’s not sure how to deal with nothing−</p><p>The door to the room opens suddenly, making her flinch. Sam has returned. He gives her a nod, an up-kick of his chin just short of offensiveness, but she slips back inside rather than fall into her black hole anyway.</p><p>“I was looking for somewhere to eat,” he says, dumping his battered holdall on the bed nearest the door. “Not many places open. But they do have room service. You hungry?”</p><p>What’s the point of a lie? “Starving.”   </p><p>“Guess we’ll put it on your tab,” he says, bitterness bleeding through again. He throws a menu across to her. “Take a look. I need a fucking shower.”</p><p>“Sure. I can−”</p><p>“Great.” He digs through his holdall, fishing out his wash-bag, and locks himself away without another glance at her.</p><p>She can hear him through the wall. The sound of the water, of him clearing his throat. Sitting on the other bed and telling herself not to listen; finding she’s still doing it anyway. There’s an uncomfortable intimacy to it. She turns on the TV to try and drown out his noise and the mental image it freights unasked, unwanted, of Sam under the shower.</p><p>She’s not thought about him that way since their falling-out. Any memory of the way it felt − to hold him; to kiss him; of the warmth and surprising softness of his skin as she slipped her hand inside his shirt – it’s all been blotted out by sick shame and anger over what happened next. She’s surprised and more than a little ashamed to find some lingering ember of attraction remains. A feeling not helped when he returns to the room, strangely causal in just his undershirt and jeans. Feet bare and his hair damp and tousled, steamed-up glasses in his hand.</p><p>“Pressure’s good,” he says shortly. Sounding like Sam, even though he looks half a stranger.</p><p>“It’s a pretty decent room,” she agrees.</p><p>“Mmm. Silver linings, I guess. You decide what you want to eat?”</p><p>“Just a-a burger or something please”</p><p>“Right.” He rings through an order for two, as she flicks listlessly through the TV channels on mute. Silence descends when he puts down the receiver, thick and awkward. She keeps her eyes on the screen, unseeing, until her heaves a deep sigh. “So, are we going to spend the whole time not talking to each other?”</p><p>She clicks the TV off. “I thought you were mad at me.”</p><p>“Well, yeah. But what else is new?” He’s replaced his glasses, at least, but he still seems odd with his hair all swept back. “Anyway, aren’t you still mad at me? Pretty sure at this point it’s a reciprocal thing.”</p><p>“I’m… not mad at you.” She lets out a long sigh of her own. “Honestly? I have no idea what I’m feeling right now.”</p><p>He nods, expression softer. The secret version of himself that only seems to exist when they’re together alone like this. “Did you really quit GLOW?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>He watches her for a moment, frowning confused. “Why?”</p><p>“Why did <em>you</em> quit?” she fires back.  </p><p>“Because I felt shitty and useless. You know, the show was frozen. Bash and Debbie were at each other's throats. You weren’t really speaking to me−“</p><p>“That’s <em>not</em> fair−”</p><p>“Okay, fine! I was hurt and being childish and so we weren't really talking anymore. I didn’t want to wake up every day and miss someone... right fucking there. I wanted to go do something useful. Helping Justine pitch her script felt like I was being useful.”</p><p>She nods. “I feel... like maybe I’m just wasting my life. I want to act. That’s what – that’s what I want to do. And, you know, you offered me that stupid part only to take it away again, and Debbie wanted me to come on board to her new network, but as a director, and−and−I don’t know! I just wanted to do <em>something</em> to try and fix everything. But somehow, everything I’ve done has only fucked it up more.” She risks meeting his eyes. His mouth a stony line, clearly holding back on what he wants to say. “Just… tell me what it is that you’re thinking.”</p><p>He grimaces, doing as he’s told against his better judgement. “I don’t know, Ruth. Everything always winds up so... extreme with you. First it's all one thing and then suddenly it's another.”</p><p>“You’re saying <em>I’m </em>mercurial?” she scoffs.</p><p>“Just because I am too doesn’t mean you can’t be! Jesus.”</p><p>They are interrupted by a knock at the door: the arrival of their dinner. It’s a proper heart-attack-on-a-plate type of burger, and after days of not eating properly it seems to wake her frozen appetite. She’s several bites into her meal when she notices he is still deliberating over his. “Are you on a <em>diet?”</em> she asks, incredulous, through a mouthful of bread and grease.</p><p>“Kind of,” he replies, genuinely shocking her. “Trying to avoid this sort of artery-clogging stuff as much as I can.” He sighs. “I guess the occasional slip-up won’t kill me. Right?”</p><p>She swallows thickly. “Did something happen? Or are you just−?”</p><p>“Ah, fuck.” He looks up to the ceiling for a moment, finding the words. “Something. It was a while ago now. I don’t want to talk about it.” He takes in her expression and shakes his head. “I mean it.”</p><p>She can tell from his tone that he really does. “Alright, fine,” she sighs.  Devouring the rest of her plate in short order, as he picks at half of his. She puts the detritus outside their door once they’re done.</p><p>He lies back on his bed, making a noise somewhere between and sigh and a groan, as she sits cross-legged on her own mattress. “Aah God.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing. I just… really miss cigarettes.”</p><p>“You quit <em>smoking</em>?”</p><p>“New Year’s Resolution.”</p><p>“Wow, no wonder you’re irritable...”</p><p>“Oh, ha fucking ha.” He puts his hands behind his head, studying the ceiling, and she pretends to herself she doesn’t notice the way the muscles in his arms move.  “So. What’s your next move?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I figured head back to LA and… start over.”</p><p>His moustache twitches as he screw up his face in response to this. “Do you want my honest opinion?”</p><p>“Does what I want ever stop you from giving it?”</p><p>“Alright, alright…” He turns to look at her, the sudden intensity of his gaze making her insides squirm alarmingly. “Don’t start over. Go talk to Debbie.”</p><p>“You don’t think I can make it as an actress either?” The bitterness in her voice surprises her.</p><p>He raises his eyebrows. “Is <em>that</em> what she said?”</p><p>“No−I−Not exactly.”</p><p>“Fuck. No, Ruth, that’s not what I’m saying. I think you’re better than Zoya, better than a shitty little part in some bullshit teen movie directed by a washed-up hack.”</p><p>“You’re not−”</p><p>“Shut up. But I do think you need time and space to figure things out. Working with Debbie gives you that. C'mon. At least give it a shot. You know, the worst that can happen is that you’ll end up back here.”</p><p>She doesn’t trust her voice, all of a sudden. Her eyes suddenly blurring with tears. She looks at her knees instead, and nods. Not agreement exactly, but acknowledging that she hears what it is he has to say. “What about us?” she manages, after a while, earning herself a sharp look. “Are we… okay?”</p><p>He blows air, considering. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Yeah, I think we’re okay. I mean, I thought I was fucking hallucinating when I saw you at the gate.”</p><p>“Me too.”</p><p>“But, I dunno. If this hadn’t happened, I’m not sure when I’d have spoken to you again. Probably not for a long time.”</p><p>She nods again.  “Yeah. I am… sorry. Truly.”</p><p>“I know. Me too.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have said−”</p><p>“Look, I meant what I said earlier. It doesn’t matter. We’ve both got shit we need to work on. Probably for the best things played out the way they did, all things considered.”</p><p>She’s surprised at the sinking feeling his words freight, even if she might agree. “Yeah,” she says, breezy as she can manage, no longer able to look him in the eye. “Who were we kidding, right?”</p><p>“Right.”   </p><p>She examines the ceiling minutely for a while; then her feet. The patterns in the carpet. Looking anywhere but at him. Until in the end she has to <em>know</em>, doesn’t she? If he’s feeling similarly awkward. She glances up to find him staring. And now she can’t look <em>away,</em> her chest tight with feeling, as he watches her. Soft and sad.</p><p>“I mean,” she says eventually, swallowing the lump in throat, “maybe it wouldn’t have <em>all</em> been terrible.”</p><p>His moustache twitches again, amusement she thinks, this time. “No,” he agrees. "Not all of it."</p><p>And she <em>knows</em> he’s thinking the same thing; remembering how it felt when they were kissing on the sidewalk. An unfettering of something in them both. Where there was nothing to explain, or rationalise; nothing to <em>be</em> other than purely herself. A overwhelming synchronicity, a sense of pieces coming together whole, that made his sudden confession the gut-punch it really was.</p><p>If he was closer, she realises − horrified − she would absolutely kiss him right now. Or maybe he’d kiss her. Instead they’re both paralysed. Glued to their respective single beds, because standing up to cross the room would inevitably give time and space for actual rational thoughts. Like what a stupid idea it would be for them to do this, here and now.</p><p>“I should get a shower,” she blurts out, breaking the connection. “Don’t want to… keep you awake. With the noise.”</p><p>“Yeah, no, that's a good... It's hot. The temperature, I mean,” he stumbles, and it feels strangely like a victory, to know with complete certainty he’s going to be thinking of <em>her</em> naked in the water now. With that thought she practically leaps across the room, to find safety from her own stupidity behind a locked door. Meeting her own eyes in the bathroom mirror she shakes her head. <em>You idiot</em>, she says to herself. Of all the ridiculous things she could now do−</p><p><em>Knock-knock</em>.</p><p>The rap on the door makes her flinch with shock. She opens it an inch; in deep, deep confusion. “Is everything−?”</p><p>“Thought you might want your own towel,” he explains, proffering a fluffy cotton one he’s taken from the wardrobe. She looks back, at the heated rail in the bathroom, and realises she would have had to re-use his damp one had he not knocked on the door at this moment.</p><p>“Oh! Right. Thank you.” She opens the door properly to take it from him. “That would have been−”</p><p>And she’s not sure, really, which one of them moves first. Maybe it’s another strange simpatico moment; something they bear equal responsibility for. All she knows is that the end of her stupid sentence is lost as his mouth finds hers. She drops the towel on the floor, wrapping her arms around him, as they deepen their kiss. Pulling herself into his embrace even as he grips her shoulders so tightly it’s almost painful. His hand finds the back of her neck, holding her close. As if she has any intention of stopping kissing him right now, just as ferociously as he is kissing her.  </p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Storm Breaks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s Sam that eventually breaks them apart. Just like before. He draws back to look at her.  “Hey,” he says, almost apologetic. “Look−”</p><p>“This is a bad idea?” she winces, preparing for the inevitable blow.</p><p>“I’m not saying that.” It comes out sharper than perhaps he intends, his fingers tightening reflexively on her arms. “I just… You know, you’ve been−”</p><p>“Making a lot of poor decisions recently?” She intends it as wry self-deprecation but he actually flinches at her words.</p><p>“Is that what you think I am, Ruth? Really?”</p><p>Her stomach lurches at his hurt expression. “No,” she says quickly. “No, that’s not what I meant. This isn’t about you, this is−”</p><p>“What are you talking about? I’m in this fucking room with you. I'm the guy that you’re doing this with. So, yeah, it kind of is about me too. Or at least it should be.”</p><p>“Are you saying that I’m being selfish?”</p><p>“I’m saying that I want you to look at what you have! Not what’s in your head, or what you think it should be. I want you to look at me and make whatever choice it is you’re going to make based on what’s actually <em>here</em>. Standing in front of you.”</p><p>She can’t look away from his earnest face. These moments of emotional honesty from Sam still blindside her, every time. “Sam… What’s here is so complicated,” she tries. “And not just <em>here </em>here. Everywhere I go. It’s all… fucked up and I can’t make sense of it, and…” She stops and tries again; the whole truth this time. “<em>I’m</em> fucked up. And nothing that I thought I wanted seems to make me feel any less lost.”</p><p>He nods, his jaw working back and forth for a moment. “So. Where do you want to be?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean, if you know you’re lost, presumably you know where it is you want to get to.”</p><p>“No,” she says, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “I don’t. I mean, I miss acting. I miss working with other people who really care about what it is that they’re doing. I miss… having a best friend. I... I miss Debbie. But−but not Debbie now. Debbie when we were both nobodies together. I know that... I know that sounds shitty.” She sighs. “So, no. I don’t know where I want to be. Do <em>you?”</em></p><p>She intends it as a barb of self-defence to end his line of questioning, but he looks thoughtful instead of snapping back, his thumbs worrying over her shoulders. “Six… Fuck, seven years ago... I thought I was where I was meant to be. Or, you know, close to it. I wasn’t making movies where I shot the whole thing myself anymore. I had a crew and a reputation and… and a fucking <em>wife.</em> And she was beautiful, and we bought a house together and adopted a damn dog. I thought… maybe in a couple of years we’ll even have a family. Or−or not. You know, kids... Not exactly my fucking bag, but if she’d have wanted that, I would have…” He takes in her bemused expression at where this disjointed trip down memory lane is going, and clears his throat. “<em>Anyway</em>. My point is: I thought I’d made it to wherever it was I was supposed to be. Professionally. Personally. Even my mother finally stopped bitching about my poor life choices. And then I walked in on her fucking my steadicam operator.”</p><p>She stares at him for an appalled second. “Your <em>mother</em> was fucking−?”</p><p>“No! Jesus Christ! <em>No</em>. My ex-wife. She cheated on me and… and I think it took me about six months to destroy pretty much all of that life. And I was a bitter angry fuck about it for a long time. Still am, sometimes. But my point is – cliché as it fucking sounds, Ruth – if life is always about the destination I think you’re always going to feel lost. Because none of us are going where we expect. And, you know, part of the reason Debbie drives you so crazy is she’s one of the best I’ve ever seen at making the most of what’s in front of her. She gets it.”</p><p>“But it’s <em>inconsistent</em>!” she snaps back. “Two years ago it was all ‘get married and have a family, Ruth.’ And then it was all about having the starring role in GLOW. And now it’s producing, and wheeler-dealing with network executives, and… and…”</p><p>“Mmm,” he says. “Maybe you’re missing the part here that’s actually consistent.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He gives her the scowl he reserves for when she says something he finds particularly stupid. “You. You idiot.”   </p><p>She opens her mouth to argue back, and closes it again. “I don’t know <em>why</em>,” she tries instead, “I don’t know why any of you want−”</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ Ruth. Seriously? Why do people even like you? Is that what you’re asking? Because most of the time you’re not this self-pitying and unbearable. Most of the time you’re smart and funny and kind and hard-working… and beautiful. In spite of dressing yourself out of the lost-and-found bin.”</p><p>She scoffs, struggling to find a reply. Only Sam would gift-wrap such a compliment inside an insult.</p><p>“You’re probably the most irritating person I’ve ever fucking met,” he continues. “But also the only one I want to spend all of my time with.”</p><p>Silence rings in the wake of those words. She swallows thickly. “Really?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, much softer now. He knows it’s as absurd as she does. “Ruth…” His hand cups her face, thumb running over her cheek. He presses his lips together, as he considers his next words more carefully, and she shivers in spite of herself with fearful anticipation. “Look. We both know I’m still in love with you. Even now. Even though I should fucking know better.”</p><p>She hears her own breath hitch at this confession, somehow still a surprise to her, even though this must be at least the third time he’s made it. “I used to think that you would destroy me,” she says. “But it turns out I mostly do that to myself and you help me pick up the pieces−”</p><p>He kisses her again, slow and deep. “I’m not asking for forever,” he says eventually, eyes still closed, as she runs her fingers along his jaw. “I just… All I’ve ever wanted is for us to give it a shot.”</p><p>“I know, I−” She captures his mouth this time. It’s too easy to lose herself in the way it feels; the rush it sends through her body. “I think maybe that’s what’s here,” she gasps eventually.</p><p><em>“What’s</em> here?” he whispers, gentle in his confusion for a change.</p><p>“In front of me right now,” she explains. “A shot. If - if you still want that. If I haven’t−”</p><p>“Ruth…” He pulls her hard against him, his arousal obvious. “I mean, what the fuck do you think I want?”</p><p>“Me,” she breathes. </p><p>His answer to that is a kiss so fierce she almost loses her footing. He hoists her into his arms to save her, and carries her back into the bedroom. Stronger than she expects, somehow. There's a stockiness to him she's tried not to see before; masculine solidity half-hidden by his usual rumpled sweaters and old-fashioned shirts.</p><p>She tugs at his tee-shirt as he deposits her onto her bed, because now at last she <em>wants</em> to see; wants to touch. He obliges, flinging away his glasses and pulling it up over his head. She runs her hands up over his bare chest. Over hard muscle, and the sharp line of his collarbone; the softer skin and the tickle of his salt and pepper hairs. He makes a soft kind of noise in response to her touch, bearing her down onto the mattress with the pressure of his kisses. Fingers fumbling on the buttons of her shirt; opening her to the world so he can do the same thing. She gasps as he reaches her breasts. He reads it right, the sudden buck of her hips hard against him, an invitation to be greedy. His mouth follows his hands. Kissing; sucking harder; as her fingers wind into his hair, encouraging him on.</p><p>She’s panting when he stops briefly, looking up at her. Wicked delight breaking across his face as he realises her reaction is real. Making to head back for more, but her hands have found his belt in the pause, and she’s struggling to unbuckle him blind. “Off,” she commands. He does as he’s told, untangling himself from his jeans, as she pulls down her own pants to join his shirt on the floor.</p><p>His erection, tenting his boxers, is impossible to keep her hands away from. He makes another involuntary noise as she wraps her fingers around him. Under cotton, at first, but it’s all too easy to slip her hand inside. Running her thumb over the head of his cock, she takes him in hand again; moving up and down−</p><p>He catches hold of her wrist after a few moments. “Too good,” he growls, and she lets go reluctantly. Lets him pin her arms to the bed for a time, kissing down her body to the line of her panties. She squirms, wanting him to taste her, but his tongue is tracing back up between her breasts instead. He knows what she’s asking for, and delights in not giving it to her. Kissing her neck instead, nosing along her ear. She presses her hips hard against him again in retaliation, grinding against his erection, and he laughs. A wicked chuckle she really shouldn’t find quite so arousing. “Alright, okay…”</p><p>He tugs her panties down at last and pushes her legs apart. For a second he’s framed between her knees, an expression on his face she’s <em>never</em> seen before. A raw desire that makes her stomach jolt. Fierce and wild; exciting, but in the same way as thunder and lightning. He lowers his head, pressing his mouth to her cunt, and she decides she really doesn’t care anymore. It’s worth being caught in the storm for, oh, for <em>this</em>.   </p><p>“Sam?” she hears herself say, eventually. Voice ragged.</p><p>“Mmm?”</p><p>“I’m going to… If you keep…”</p><p>“Oh,” he says, smug. Crawling back up the bed until his nose bumps hers. “Is that what you want?”</p><p>She’s not got the patience for more teasing. “Come with me,” she gasps, her fingers digging into his hips.   </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he says, face tightening with the obvious need her words drive through him. He enters her there and then. Self-control evaporated now, thrusting hard, fucking her with animal want. And she’s right there with him. Moving against him with equal ferocity. The moan of pleasure that escapes him every time he buries himself deep, deep inside of her echoed in her own throat. Over and over. Until the inevitable finally happens, and she feels herself tightening around him, impossibly hard now. Her orgasm unfolds so intensely that she cries out, and he spends himself instantly in response.</p><p>He doesn’t pull out right away, like she’s expecting him to. Their movements slow gradually instead, as awareness of anything other than their connection returns. They’re both breathless and sweating, and he’ll carry bruises in the shape of her fingers away from this moment. She suspects her own skin is marked by his mouth in tell-tale purple. He kisses her mouth again, clumsy now in the aftermath. Drawing back to take in her expression, here on the other side.</p><p>“So,” she says lightly. “How was it for you?”</p><p>He laughs; a genuine chuckle of mirth. She can feel the muscles in his stomach move against hers. “Yeah,” he grins. “That was… that was pretty good.”</p><p>She bites her lip, ridiculous as it is to be coy right now, as he gently withdraws. Staying on top of her, still panting slightly. “You alright?” he checks.</p><p>“Yeah,” she replies, surprised to find she probably means it. She runs her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his face. “I mean, I thought it was pretty good too.” This draws another laugh from him, one that she can’t help but catch. He kisses her again, boyish sweet now, and there’s a balloon of happiness in her chest in spite of all her best instincts.</p><p>“I should… go pee,” she says eventually; probably the wrong thing from a romantic perspective but she’s always been a pragmatist.</p><p>“Mmm. I should let you go do that,” he agrees, rolling off at last. She makes it as far as the bathroom door when he speaks again. “Ruth?”</p><p>“Yes?” She turns back, hating herself a little for the jump-skip of her heart the sight of him post-coitally flustered freights.</p><p>He clears his throat. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I’m probably soft enough to push these beds together while you’re in there,” he says. It takes her a moment for her to understand quite what he’s confessing. “I mean, if that’s what you want,” he adds, too quickly. “If you don’t, it's fine, I’ll−”</p><p>“Yes,” she says again. Sharing another soft smile with him, before she retreats to the bathroom once more.   </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She takes her time in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and running the water pointlessly, so she can pretend not to hear him swearing as he hastily rearranges their room. When the clanking stops she risks opening the door again. Of course, the downside of delay is prickling cold on her bare skin; a sudden self-consciousness about finding herself naked in front of him. Which is ridiculous given their activities of the past half hour. Still, she peeks around the door frame nervously. Finding him similarly awkward, perched on the now-double bed. A corner of a hastily draped sheet is all that’s covering his modesty, not fooling her at all with the faux-casual positioning.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, “you wanna… come join me?” Angling his head, trying and failing to sound nonchalant about it. It’s honestly something of a relief. For all of his tales of booze and blow and hookers she seems to fluster him just as badly as he does her.</p><p>“Mm-hm,” she smiles. Forcing herself to walk, not run. She slides under the sheets next to him, and to her relief the awkwardness dissolves as he puts his arm around her. His skin warm against hers as he pulls her close, dipping his head to kiss her again.</p><p>“Oh, gosh...”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he lies, pressing more kisses to her lips. “I guess it’s just… nice. You know?”</p><p>“Yes,” she agrees, taking his face in her hands. Intoxicating might be the word she’d use for it right now. Unwilling to let each other go. He strokes his hand through her hair, still smiling. She’s known for a while there’s something sweet and soft-hearted underneath all his cantankerousness, but this is the most of his other-self that she’s ever seen.</p><p>“Usually I’d ask you what you thought about Spain,” he says, after a while, “but I feel like it might be a little awkward under the circumstances.”</p><p>She laughs – a miracle in itself, given how world-ending recent events have seemed inside her own head. “A little awkward,” she agrees. Stretching out against him, legs tangling together. “But, I don’t know… If we’re going to avoid talking about things that are awkward, there might not be−”</p><p>“−a lot we can still fucking say?”</p><p>“Right,” she grins. Tracing a finger along his collar bone as she thinks about her answer. “Honestly… If my whole life wasn’t falling apart, I think I would have enjoyed it. There was an amazing cathedral, and the museum of fine arts... Oh, and did you know about the tobacco factory? It’s like this… big baroque building that’s supposedly the inspiration for <em>Carmen</em>−”</p><p>“Oh, wow.”</p><p>She flicks his shoulder in indignation “Hey. Come on.”</p><p>“What? This sounds nerdier than Las Vegas public library−”</p><p>“Well, what about you?” she cuts across, before he can really work up steam. “Christmas with Justine in New York. That must have been fun?”</p><p>“Are you kidding me? I’m amazed we didn’t fucking kill each other.”</p><p>“But it’s so beautiful in the winter−!”</p><p>“Yeah, for about fifteen minutes! Then we were either working, or stuck pretending that either one of us gives a shit about festive tourist crap.”</p><p>“Hmm,” she says, giving him a shrewd look. “Did you go ice skating?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>He rolls his eyes but gives her the whole truth. “Justine did. What? I can’t fucking skate! I wasn’t going to risk a broken ankle just to look like an ass for half an hour.” He narrows his eyes at her I-knew-it grin. “Shut up,” he adds for good measure, and kisses her.</p><p>“I can teach you to skate,” she says, when they break apart</p><p>“I don’t want you to teach me how to skate. I’m happy living my skate-free life. There are no unfulfilled skating-related ambitions that I’m secretly harbouring.”</p><p>“It’s fun! Like… you teaching me how to gamble.”</p><p>“Ohh. Right. Okay.”</p><p>“It could be a nice date.”</p><p>“Sure.” He holds her a little tighter, she thinks without realising. “Is that what you’d like?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“When we – after this,” he stumbles. “You wanna… go on dates?”</p><p>“You don’t?”</p><p>“No, no, I – dates are good,” he says hurriedly. “I can do dating.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You sounded sceptical.”</p><p>“No, I just…” He stops and sighs. “It’s just been a long time. You know? You say date and I think fancy dinner. Maybe a movie or - or going dancing. Not fucking winter Olympic sports.”</p><p>She buries her laugh in his shoulder for a moment. “You go dancing?” she asks, incredulous, once she has control of herself.</p><p>“I… used to.”</p><p>“Wow.”</p><p>“Don’t−” He stops himself, narrowing his eyes instead. “Fine. If you’re so interested in my two left feet, I’ll put it on the list.”</p><p>“You can do that,” she grins, and he kisses her again before she can ask any more questions.</p><p>It goes on for some time. Until he’s panting slightly, and she can feel him growing hard against her again. The realisation sends a rush of want between her own legs. She rolls her hips against him and he moans. Pressing himself against her as they make out more, open-mouthed and greedy. She casts her leg over his hip, enjoying his neediness. The blunt head of his cock clumsily seeking her entrance, as she holds herself back, just enough to−</p><p>“Christ, Ruth,” he begs. “Please.”</p><p>His breathless plea drives another spike of arousal through her and she rolls on top of him. Sliding down onto him, letting him fill her once again. It feels too good. His hands on her hips; moving up over her back as his mouth finds her breasts. Her plans for something slow and sensual crumbling rapidly. Maybe they’ll learn self-control another time. For now, the makeshift bed thumps back and forth with increasing ferocity, as she rides him hard. He says her name as she unravels him again, and her own climax takes her breath away.</p><p>She collapses down onto him in the aftermath. His chest heaving underneath hers; her nose buried in his shoulder for a long moment. His hand finds her face again when she eventually raises her head, like he’s checking she’s really here.</p><p>“Are you trying to fucking kill me?”</p><p>“Is there another way you’d like to go?” she returns, and he cracks a grin. Disentangling from him, she rolls so she can lie with her head on his shoulder. He hums happily in response, nuzzling into her hair.</p><p>“Are you… sleepy?”</p><p>“Yeah, for some reason. Aren’t you?</p><p>“A little. But we should probably set an alarm…”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>He’s already drifting, she can tell from the change in his breathing. She bites her lip for a moment, amused, and then leans across him to set the bedside alarm clock.</p><p>*</p><p><em>Beep-beep-beep-beep</em>−</p><p>“Fuck,” she hears him rumble, his voice cracked with sleep. He reaches out to swat the alarm into submission. “<em>Fuck</em>. Why is it so fucking early?”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she cringes. “I just didn’t want to miss the connection, and I wasn’t sure if… if… ” But it’s a sentence without an end, and she gives up to fights the sheets she’s wound around herself in sleep. He frowns in response to her flustered panic.</p><p>“Hey.” His hands find hers, halting her attempt to flee the bed. “Ruth. What… What the fuck is happening?”</p><p>“Nothing!” she lies breathily. “I just – you know, I –” But she doesn’t have any explanation, other than vague guilt she’s somehow fucked things up just by setting an early alarm. Which she recognises as crazy, now she’s trying to put that fear into words.</p><p>He narrows his eyes for a moment, obviously trying to work her out, and sighs. “How about we try this again? Good morning, Ruth. Did you sleep well?”</p><p>She laughs, in spite of herself, at his sing-song absurdity. “Yes. I – I did. Did you?”</p><p>“Yeah. Hence, you know, my reaction to that fucking alarm.” He leans in, hesitant to give her the kiss he so clearly wants to. She lets her nose bump his for a moment, eyes falling closed, and brushes her lips against his. “I’m sorry,” he says, against her mouth. “I didn’t mean to wake up an asshole, it’s just… well, it’s be been a long time since… since…”</p><p>“I know,” she says, rather than prolong his struggle with a truth she doesn’t really need to hear right now. “I didn’t mean to… freak out like that either.”</p><p>He kisses her again. “Let’s, uh, let’s ring the airport service desk. Find out what the fuck is happening.”</p><p>She nods, reaching for the ‘phone and dialling for the operator. Hold music plays through the speaker once she’s connected and she rolls her eyes. His fingers ghost over her arm as she listens, making her shiver slightly. Back and forth. His thumb slipping to drag across the skin of her hip. She puts her palm over the receiver. “Sam.”</p><p>“What?” he replies, all innocence. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck.</p><p>“I’m trying to find out what’s happening with our flight.”</p><p>“I know that.” Another kiss. “Are you saying you can’t multi-task?”</p><p>“No, I can−”</p><p><em>“Pan-Am flight service desk</em>,” interrupts the ‘phone, and she almost drops the receiver in surprise.</p><p>“Hi! Yes! Um, my name is Ruth Wilder and I’m supposed to be boarding a replacement flight for Los Angeles this morning?”</p><p>“Is that flight 8724?”</p><p>“Um, yes. Yes, that’s correct.” She tries to ignore the path of his fingers, tracing down her spine.</p><p>“Your departure is delayed until 1500 due to the weather. I’m sorry, were you not contacted by your rep this morning?”</p><p>“Um, no… no contact.”</p><p>She closes her eyes, as he massages back up towards her shoulders, managing to uh-huh her response to a crisp corporate apology before she hangs up.</p><p>“What’d they say?”</p><p>She turns over. “Delayed until three.” He’s annoyingly appealing in his dishevelled state right now, and far too pleased with himself for distracting her. She bites her lip, torn between the sensible thing to do right now – shower, breakfast, trying to get <em>pesetas</em> transferred into enough dollars at the bureau de change to at least pay him back for <em>some</em> of the prior evening’s expenses – and what she’d really like to do.</p><p>“What?” he says, almost anxious, in the face of her to-him-clearly-inscrutable expression.</p><p>“Nothing,” she says, and kisses him before he can open his mouth to remonstrate further.</p><p>*</p><p>They stumble out into the cold eventually, neither of them with the right shoes for picking through the drifted snow. Or maybe that’s just their excuse for clinging to one another, as the clock runs down on their stolen time together. There’s a diner down the street from the hotel, he says, and they strike out in the hope of pancakes and coffee. Sitting on the same bench in the booth, his arm around her shoulders like teenagers on a date. They bicker back and forth about everything and nothing. Avoiding the elephant in the room of <em>what next</em>, because why crush a dreamlike moment with the weight of reality, that will return soon enough, whatever they might want? <em>It could be like this</em>, sings her heart. <em>This is a childish fantasy</em>, says her head. Her life is still in pieces, and this is just another jagged fragment she’s added to the mix.</p><p>“Will you call me?” he asks, when they’re sitting near their gate. In the final moments before boarding begins and they take seats on different sides of the plane. It feels strange that they’ll be together and yet not.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, and she hopes it’s true but she doesn’t <em>know</em>. If this all twists in her head, if she talks herself out of it in the name of propriety; of sufficiently mourning the end of her relationship with Russell; she knows there’s a chance that she won’t.</p><p>And he knows it too, she realises, looking up at him, into those sad eyes.</p><p>“Alright,” he says, smiling with his mouth alone. Well, I guess I better...”</p><p>“Mm-hm.” There’s a lump in her throat she can’t explain.</p><p>“Bye, Ruth,” he says, and there’s something of that old frustration on his face for a moment; she finds herself tensing for a barb. Instead, he gives her a kiss, hard against her mouth, like he’s scared she’s going to forget him.</p><p>“Bye, Sam,” she manages, when they break apart. Watching him walk away to find his seat on the flight - she’s decided not to follow until he’s out of sight. He disappears down the jetway, and the balloon of happiness in her chest pops, replaced by a miserable leaden feeling.</p><p>“Final call,” chimes the gate stewardess, and she stands up and walks into the flow of her future like a woman in a dream.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Screenplay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Today’s soup is cream of parsnip and our special is a duck terrine,” Ruth smiles, handing out menus. “Can I get you folks started with anything to drink?”</p><p>“Sure. I’ll take a diet Coke, thanks.”</p><p>“And for me.”</p><p>“I’ll be right back with those.” She trots obediently across the parquet floor and pushes through the swinging double-doors that separate the secret kitchen world from that of the diners. The low conversational hum of a slow Tuesday is instantly transformed into bustle and clatter.</p><p><em>Ding-ding</em>! “Number 72 up!”</p><p>The plates are hot and she winces as she loads up her tray. Her wrestling calluses aren’t in the right places; although it’s definitely easier than she remembers to manhandle a heavy load of crockery. She still knows better than to glance at the clock when she brings out the food. It feels like she’s hours into her shift already but she’s spent enough time waitressing to know how long the day will stretch. Best to focus on what’s right in front of her, and forget the time.</p><p>And underneath all that, far deeper inside, the growing scream of despair.  </p><p>*</p><p>The pressure is terrible and the water only lukewarm at best. She turns her grateful face to the showerhead regardless. Rinsing away the cloying grease of her shift, the dull ache in her legs of a day spent on her feet. She has the apartment to herself for a little while at least. Curling up on the couch, wrapped in her blanket, she searches through the listings of rooms to rent in the paper.</p><p>After a while she can’t ignore it anymore, the elephant in the room. An old fashioned rotary ‘phone sitting on the table across from her. She presses her lips together, folding the paper. Fingers tapping, brain fizzing.</p><p>It’s not that she’s scared to call, exactly. But there are other calls that she should be making <em>first</em>. Apologies owed and explanations. Calls she’s avoiding until she has her own space again. The peace and quiet to think and make amends. The same instinct that compelled her to eat dinner first and then dessert, every time, from the Fan-Tan buffet.</p><p>The thought makes her smile lopsidedly, imagining Sam’s reaction if he heard himself compared to something <em>sweet</em>. She taps her feet in the agony of indecision. But what else is there to do, other than dread another day-shift at <em>O’Malley’s Bar and Grill</em>? Plan her tour of the crummiest apartments money-can-be-eked-out-by-renting before she wears out her welcome on this borrowed couch?</p><p>On that thought she breaks. Crossing the room to the ‘phone and turning the dial to call his number. It takes enough time that her heart has climbed into her mouth, her throat dry as the ‘phone finally rings out. Three times, four−</p><p>
  <em>“You’re through to Sam Sylvia. Leave me a message.” </em>
</p><p>“Oh, um, hey−” she stumbles, wrong-footed by his terse voice on the machine.</p><p>There is a clattering noise, the sound of a receiver hastily fumbled. “Ruth! Hey! Hi.” He clears his throat, clearly trying to play things a little cooler on a second attempt. “How you doing?”</p><p>“Fine,” she lies. “If now’s a bad time, I can always−?”</p><p>“No, no. Just, you know, I wasn’t sure who was calling.”</p><p>“Just me,” she says, suddenly not at all sure of what she wants to say. “Are you… up to anything fun?”</p><p>“Sure. I mean, if editing screenplay drafts is your idea of a good time.”</p><p>“Justine wrote another script?” She manages to keep any tightness out of her voice, but only just.</p><p>“Uh, no. This one’s mine.” He coughs again. “You know, I wouldn’t mind a second pair of eyes… if you’re free?”</p><p>She grits her teeth. “I’m a little busy this weekend, but−”</p><p>“Are you busy right now?”</p><p>Her breath catches. The simple answer, of course, is no. And reading his screenplay <em>would</em> be a welcome distraction from her own miseries. She’s not so naive as to assume that’s all he’s offering, either. If she denied replaying edited highlights of their time together in the theatre of her imagination she’d be a liar.So why not say yes?</p><p>The nagging guilt over what she owes to others, of course. Her debts still unpaid. The sense that what she wants often turns out to be what's bad for her. Or him. For anybody. </p><p>“Um,” she says, about to turn him down. A key rattles in the apartment door as she’s trying to find the right words to do so without making it a permanent rejection.  </p><p>“Hi, Ru−Oops! Sorry! Didn’t realise you had a call…”</p><p>She gives the returning Katharine – generous donor of couch space – a grateful smile for the apology, and changes her mind.</p><p>“No,” she says, as the butterflies of bad decision-making taking flight in her stomach. “No, I’m not busy.”</p><p>*</p><p>Half an hour later she pulls up under the streetlight near his apartment. She catches her own eyes in the rear-view mirror; checks her teeth and fluffs her hair. Letting out a long breath before shaking her head at her own ridiculousness and stepping out of the car. Her hands feel empty as she walks to his front door. She almost stopped to buy wine before she remembered his declaration of sobriety. Debated something more radical, like chocolate, or flowers, or – oh, any distraction from the fact of the matter. That what he really wants is <em>her</em>. And not the sanitised version of herself she’d like to be; tries and fails to be. Just her, as she really is.</p><p>
  <em>Knock-Knock.</em>
</p><p>It should feel like a relief. Instead she worries it’s a trap. An easy way to fall into all the things she despises most about herself. The bad decisions, the selfishness and−</p><p>He opens his door. “Hey,” he says, smiling, instantly derailing her anxious train of thought. “Ruth. Good to see you.”</p><p>“And you,” she beams, because that part at least is easy to admit.  </p><p>“You wanna come in?”</p><p>She crosses the threshold into his house. Hastily tidied, judging from books piled haphazardly on the shelves. There’s a tiny spot of foam just under his ear that he’s clearly missed during a rapid shave of his face. Last time she was here, she realises suddenly, she was still on crutches.</p><p>“Coffee?”</p><p>“That would be great, actually.”  She hears the words from far away, floating as she is outside of her body. Unspooling, as she follows him into the kitchen.</p><p>He has a pot on the boil and pours her a mug. “Milk? Sugar?”</p><p>“Uh, just a dash of milk.”</p><p>“Alright. There you go.” He pushes the mug down the counter towards her. Fingers brushing hers, somehow, as she reaches out to take it.</p><p>“Thank you,” she creaks.</p><p>“My pleasure.”</p><p>She opens her mouth to try and follow up with some other pointless pleasantry, and closes it again as she catches his eye. Caught in a moment together again. Acutely aware of her own breathing, and his. The rising heat in her face. His moustache twitches and his eyes narrow behind his glasses, like he’s trying to solve the puzzle too.</p><p>“So, I don’t know if you−”</p><p>“Sam?” she cuts across, and closes her eyes. “Can you just… kiss me please?”</p><p>For a second she’s scared he won’t. Eyes still screwed shut, and she doesn’t know where he is until he’s close enough that she can feel the warmth of him; smell the soap on his skin. His lips brush hers. Gentle at first. No sound but that of their breathing. He tastes of toothpaste. And he wanted this, she realises. Hoped for it. It makes her feel strangely powerful. She curls her fingers into his sweater, kissing hungrily now; pulling him close. It could be hours, days later, when she breaks to smile up at him.</p><p>“Look,” he manages, “the screenplay can− I mean, we don’t have to−” She can practically see his scattered brain cells valiantly attempting to regroup; as his hands move up and down her arms instinctively. “I mean, it can wait.”</p><p>She gives him another lingering kiss. “No, I came here to read it,” she insists. Letting him go and reaching for her cup of coffee, while he shakes his head in vague disbelief. Some curious mix of happiness and exasperation on his face; an emotional state possibly entirely unique to Sam.</p><p>“Alright, okay…” He leads her back to his couch and the script that’s waiting on the coffee table.  </p><p>“<em>Paterfamilias</em>,” she reads, putting down the mug. “Is it still a Western?”</p><p>“Kinda,” he says. He’s nervous, she realises. Running his hands over his knees, watching her anxious-faced.   </p><p>“EXTERIOR, the log cabin. A figure carrying chopped lumber fights her way through snow to the door of a small pioneer home,” she continues. “INTERIOR. We see her face as she removes her scarf. PATIENCE is dressed as a man, but she is in fact a woman in her early thirties…”</p><p>“What?” he says, at her pause.</p><p>“No. I guess I just assumed… Is, is Patience the daughter, or−?”</p><p>“Yeah, she’s the daughter.” He laughs at her confusion. “What? You think I wanted to deal with more fucking teenagers?”</p><p>“No, it’s just−” She bites her lip, but once again, avoiding awkward cuts down on much opportunity for actual conversation. “It’s just, Sheila mentioned−”</p><p>“Well, Sheila saw an early draft,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “This is less of a rough cut.”</p><p>She nods, and turns her attention back to the page. “… a woman in her early thirties. As she builds the fire, the camera draws back and we see the other occupant of the cabin. TEMPERANCE, a man in his late fifties, is dying in his bed…”   </p><p>*</p><p>Her coffee is stone cold and she’s reading in silence now, brow furrowed. Lips moving occasionally as she sounds out some of the lines in her head. Sam has drifted away, rearranging the badly stacked books on his shelf; gathering stray mugs and plates he clearly missed on his initial rapid tidy-up into his dishwasher. She ignores him, needing to finish a story so different from what she was expecting.</p><p>He takes her mug as she turns the final page, wordlessly refilling the coffee. “So,” he says, as she puts the sheaf of paper down carefully. “What’d you think?”</p><p>She thinks she’s unravelling again, she doesn’t say, and takes the coffee. “Sam, it’s good. But it’s… Well, it’s <em>bleak</em>.”</p><p>Of course, his earlier works are full of gratuitous violence and death too, she knows. But there’s always been a surrealist bent to them, lending a vague comic ridiculousness. Characters as cyphers; boob-a-licious babes and psycho killers in service of his plots, of the cinematography. This is something else. Something that brims with rage and regret and only the slenderest thread of redemption.</p><p>“Bleak,” he repeats. “Great. Fucking unsellable, then. Anything else?”</p><p>There’s plenty, but she’s struggling for the right words. “I like Patience. She feels… real. And raw.” She sighs, but he’s right when it comes to unsellable and they both know it. “Maybe… maybe you should stage it as a play first?</p><p>“No,” he scoffs.</p><p>“I’m serious! It’s all in the relationship between those two characters. You don’t need the big screen for that.”</p><p>“I’m not a fucking playwright, Ruth.”</p><p>“Well, maybe not <em>yet</em>.”</p><p>Her charm goes ignored. “Forget it.” He picks up the papers, clearly fighting his temper.</p><p>“Sam, don’t−”</p><p>“Don’t <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“I don’t know! Get mad at me because I think it’s a great character piece rather than a blockbuster?”</p><p>“Oh, come on−”</p><p>“I’m serious! It’s sad and… and not what I expected. You know, there’s no time travelling cyborgs or mutant lesbians! It makes the suffering feel more real.”</p><p>He sighs heavily. “Okay. Well, thanks for letting me invite you over to depress the shit out of you.”</p><p>“Actually,” she says, with a sigh of her own, “it’s kind of been the opposite.”</p><p>“Huh.” He puts the screenplay away and comes to take the seat next to her again. “Debbie still taking her pound of flesh over you turning her down?”</p><p>She winces. “I…. haven’t really spoken to Debbie yet.”</p><p>“Oh. Well, you know, putting <em>that</em> off will definitely make it easier−”</p><p>“I know! I know it’s something I need to do. I just… You know, the sub-let in my old apartment took over the contract so I need to find a new place and I’m−” Her nerve almost fails at the point of confession, but he’s bared his soul in pages of script. Maybe she owes him this. “I’m waitressing again to try and hold off spending everything I saved in Vegas, and I just need things to be a little less…” She sighs again, but there’s really only one word for it. “…less <em>desperate</em>.”</p><p>She isn’t sure what to expect in reaction. Possibly not a solemn nod, like he can possibly understand how she’s feeling. “I had to borrow money to sue for custody of my fucking dog,” he says, amazingly with a straight face. “Did I ever tell you that?”</p><p>“No,” she manages.</p><p>He nods. “Pissed away so much I had to pawn my mother’s jewellery too. That was a great feeling.”</p><p>“I’m sorry−”</p><p>“I’m not telling you because I want your pity, Ruth. I’m just saying I understand.” She watches him rub his eyes, under his glasses. “Where are you staying, if you’ve lost your apartment?”</p><p>“A friend’s couch.”</p><p>“Christ.” His hand runs on. Down over his chin, his neck, as he considers his next words. “You know, Justine’s room is free while she−”</p><p>“No, I can’t,” she snaps, annoyed at the ridiculousness of his suggestion.</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“<em>Because</em>! I can’t just <em>move in</em>−”</p><p>“That’s not what I was suggesting!” He takes in her incredulous expression. “Aw, c’mon. There’s a big fucking difference between using my spare room for a week or two while you find a new place and… that.”</p><p>“Really?” she deadpans. Angry now, that he thinks her so much a fool. “Your spare room?”</p><p>“Yeah, if that’s what you wanted! Jesus. Is this where we’re at again? You think I’d expect you to, what, fucking sleep with me the whole time? Is <em>that</em> who you think I am?”</p><p>“No!” Everything is twisting once more, bending out of shape. “Are you saying you <em>don’t</em> want to sleep with me?”</p><p>“Of course I fucking want to! But not if you don’t.” He shakes his head. “Jesus <em>Christ</em>.”</p><p>“I−” she starts, but the words are still out of reach. She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying and failing to find a way back.</p><p>“Look,” he tries, building his own bridge back towards her. “The offer’s there, alright? That’s all I’m saying.”</p><p>Like a dainty little timepiece, she thinks. Trapped under glass somewhere, forever in a Vegas pawnshop. “Thank you,” she manages eventually.</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>Silence stretches between them for a while. “I really did like the script,” she says after a while. “Patience is−”</p><p>“I wrote her for you.”</p><p>More silence, thicker now. She noticed, of course, the similarities in the character description. “Really?”</p><p>“Yep,” he replies, eyes on hers. Somehow a gift is spilling out of him like a broken confession. “Something real. You know?”</p><p>She nods, tears pricking now, for some reason she can’t really fathom. She presses a kiss to his sad mouth; hands on his face. He hesitates for a moment, and then breaks with a soft little noise, somewhere between longing and despair.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Bathroom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He pulls her into his lap as they make out. Her knees planted either side of his hips; his head thrown back to keep kissing her as she straddles him. Bodies pressed together. She lets his mouth drift down, across her throat. Fingers on the buttons of his shirt as he buries his face for a moment in her shoulder, breathes her in.</p><p>When he looks up at her again he’s wearing that secret face. Like he’s yearned for this, for her, for years. It’s almost unbearable−</p><p>“Ruth? <em>Ru</em>-uth? Are you in there?”</p><p>She snaps to attention as one of her fellow waitresses waves a hand in front of her face. “Sorry! Sorry. Miles away.”</p><p>“Number 42 are ready for their check,” Jeanie says, tucking her notepad into the pocket of her apron. “Are you okay? You’ve been kind of out of it all morning...”</p><p>“I’m fine! I just… didn’t sleep very well last night.”</p><p>“Oo, hot date?”</p><p>“No! No. I just meant – you know, I’m sleeping on a friend’s couch at the moment, and−”</p><p>“Mmm. Must be a <em>great</em> couch, to make you smile when you’re day-dreaming like that,” Jeanie grins, sticking her tongue out at Ruth’s blushes before moving on to take her next table their order.</p><p>“I−” But it’s pointless arguing after Jeanie's retreating back, and really – why is she bothering to lie? No one knows her here.  Not beyond her name tag and the same-old-story as every other girl waiting tables while they wait for their moment. She shakes her head, as if that can clear her cotton-ball brain feeling, and goes to finish up with table 42.</p><p>It means her back is turned when the door opens and <em>Um,</em> <em>party of six, name of Eagan? </em>enters from another universe. Some part of her, acting on automatic, counts change and smiles sweetly to her current customers as her brain flaps loose. <em>This cannot be real</em>. She glances up, into the barroom mirror, and finds she isn’t dreaming. Of course it’s Debbie – the girlish pink of her pantsuit at odds with the sharply tailored cut – smiling with her mouth alone as Jeanie leads her group to their booth.</p><p>The rest of the diners are all men, middle-aged and paunchy for the most part. One stand-out silver-haired gentleman; a refined cut above the rest. Debbie takes the seat to his right and it couldn’t be any clearer where the power lies. A gleaming queen and king at the head of the table, as the lower-ranking courtiers talk too loudly, and squabble over the plastic menus.</p><p>She has to walk right past their table to get to the cash register, the kitchen. There’s no way Debbie isn’t going to see her. And she should have called, <em>would</em> have called, and now it’s all too late and the situation has unravelled into this ridiculous final act of humiliation.</p><p>Ruth turns around, facing destiny. Trying to walk towards the register like she still knows what her legs are for; like her head isn’t a balloon barely tethered to the ground. Passing Debbie’s table with her eyes fixed straight ahead…</p><p>… and finding herself at the register with no cry of recognition; no calling of her name. She risks another glance up and has to at least <em>consider</em> the possibility that Debbie just hasn’t seen her. There’s certainly no sign of it on her poker face; one that Ruth recognises well as a careful mask concealing inner contempt. Is it better or worse, to have passed by unnoticed? She steals another glimpse at Debbie’s life on the other side, her hands sorting dollar bills, and finds she really couldn’t say.</p><p>*</p><p>She’s kept her head down in the almost two hours since Debbie and her crew entered the restaurant. Serving other tables. Hiding, if she’s honest, in the kitchen. Jeanie has taken them their check and it’s almost <em>over</em>, whether that’s for better or for worse. Ruth is washing her hands in the bathroom. Unthinking, lathering up the soap, as she avoids her own eyes in the mirror.</p><p>“Ruth.”</p><p>Her stomach contracts at the sound of her name in Debbie’s voice, and she looks up to see her in the mirror’s reflection. “Hi!” she says, turning. Wishing her hands weren’t dripping with water as she fakes a wide smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d noticed−”</p><p>“Are you kidding me?” There’s genuine disbelief in Debbie’s voice, but anger too; stiff and cold. “What the… fuck are you doing here Ruth?”</p><p>“What does it look like?” she hears herself return, losing the manic friendly edge. “I’m waiting tables, I’m−”</p><p>“Why? Why would you do this?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You quit GLOW to go back to <em>waitressing</em>? That was your… your big plan when you−” Debbie stops, swallows. “When you left,” she finishes more calmly, though the <em>me</em> at the end of her sentence is plain to hear even unspoken.  </p><p>“I didn’t have some big plan! I just−I-”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I didn’t want to be part of <em>your</em> big plan!” The words seem to erupt out of her, ringing off the bathroom tiles to lie heavy in the space between them.</p><p>“So, what?” Debbie manages, voice tight. “You’ll follow Sam to fucking Vegas on the word of some… sleazy titty-bar manager, but when I offer you a directing job you’d rather wait tables?”</p><p>“I wasn’t <em>following Sam</em>,” she snaps back. “I was following a job. One that I <em>earned</em>. One that I… I fought for and I chose.”  </p><p>“You’d rather that I made you audition? Jump through hoops like−”</p><p>“I don’t want the… cast-offs from whatever new life you’re putting on next! I don’t want crumbs from your table. I want my own success. On my own terms. And you never <em>listen</em>−!”</p><p>“Right! Right! Because that’s what you were doing when you imploded my marriage. That was all about success on your terms−”</p><p>“<em>No</em>!” she yells, and outside she can hear the clattering of cutlery and tableware. Whatever is happening between them now is breaching the white walls of the bathroom; leaking out into the space beyond. “That’s what I <em>wasn’t</em> doing. I don’t ever want to resent you like that… ever again.” Her cheeks are wet with tears. “I need <em>my </em>success, Debbie. I need my road.”</p><p>There is a long moment, filled with sound of their breathing. Like they’ve been running one of Cherry’s uphill five-ks. Like they’ve been wrestling. Only with this fight, Ruth doesn’t know the ending. She has no idea what happens next. She looks at Debbie’s face, terrible and sad, and her stomach drops in fear.</p><p>“I think you’re full of shit,” Debbie says. It’s quiet and deliberate; a judgement passed with a horrible kind of finality to it. There is a beat of grim-faced stilness, as she watches to make sure Ruth has heard her words; absorbed them.</p><p>Then she turns on her heel and stalks out of the bathroom.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s raining hard, because sometimes the world is cliché like that. She sits hunched behind the wheel of her faithful yellow Golf as fat drops splatter on the windshield. Initially she was going to do this over the ‘phone, once she’d collected her possessions from Katharine. Instead she’s here. Facing down the barrel of her change of heart she wishes she’d just stuck to that original plan.</p><p>It’s not too late. She could turn the key in the ignition and start driving. He’d never know…</p><p>It would be a cruelty, though, the reasonable part of her brain argues. She left this morning− earlier than either of them would have liked− in a hazy fumble of kisses and soft smiles. Half-high on a heady cocktail of sex and too-little sleep. Happy in spite of themselves.</p><p>
  <em>“Will I see you tonight?” he’d said. His stubble sharp against her neck, trailing kisses along her jaw as his doorstep goodbye.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mm-hm,” she’d affirmed, before losing herself to his mouth again. Knowing damn well the traffic would make her late for her shift now, and not caring</em>
  <em>−    </em>
</p><p>The memory of that warmth and intimacy makes her feel queasy here in the present. A kind of guilt, she thinks. Like she’s taken something that doesn’t belong to her.</p><p>She sighs heavily and steps out into the rain. Running to his door and rapping on the wood hard. <em>Come on, come on.</em> Her prayer to the god of desperate fuck-ups, as always, goes unanswered. She’s drowned-rat soaking by the time he opens up.</p><p>“Hey! I was starting to think you’d changed your mind…” He stops, as he takes in her expression and realises she has. “Oh.” His shoulders dropping as he sighs his dismay. Not shouting – not yet – but she knows anger always follows close his disappointment.  </p><p>“It’s isn’t – it’s not because of –”</p><p>“Will you just... come inside for a minute? I don’t want to do this on the fucking doorstep.”     </p><p>She’d rather not do it inside, if she’s honest. Opens her mouth to tell him as much and finds the words are stuck. Maybe she owes him this much, this time. She nods instead and follows him in to his front room, the door clicking shut behind them.</p><p>“I saw Debbie,” she manages.</p><p>“Uh-huh.” He folds his arms, clearly unimpressed at this declaration as explanation.</p><p>“We… we had a fight in the bathroom and I… got fired,” she continues. Because what’s the point, now, in trying to pretend she has any last shred of dignity? “And I realised: this is it. This is where I should give up. Just – just go home and−”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.” He rubs his eyes, under his glasses. “Home? As in, Omaha? Are you serious?”</p><p>“I−I think−”</p><p>“You’re just gonna, what? Drive for the next fucking day and a half?”</p><p>“No! Maybe! I hadn’t – I don’t have–”</p><p>“Fuck. Ruth… This is exhausting. <em>You’re</em> exhausting. You know, this is the kind of shit we fuck-ups talk about atoning for during circle time.” She stares at him, nonplussed. “Alcoholics. I just got back from a meeting.”</p><p>“Oh,” she says, penny dropping. “Wait,” she continues, as it drops further and she realises quite what he’s saying. “Are you saying that I’m like an addict?”</p><p>“Yeah. Little bit.”</p><p>She splutters slightly. “I don’t think that’s−”</p><p>“Really, Ruth? You can explain to me how <em>any</em> part of this is a rational response?”</p><p>“I– ah–” She wrings her hands, as she tries and fails.</p><p>He sighs again, exasperated. “Look, just… just stay there. Please. Don’t move.”</p><p>It feels ridiculous but she’s run out of fight. Screwing her eyes shut and rubbing her head as he disappears briefly to rattle about in his kitchen. A strong smell of alcohol makes her open them again, finding him returned with a large glass of amber liquid.</p><p>“You <em>just</em> said you were at a meeting,” she says, as he holds it out to her.</p><p> “I know. That’s why you’re drinking it, not me. It’s brandy.”</p><p>“Sam−”</p><p>“C’mon. Some shit’s too good to just pour down the sink with the rest of the rotgut. Think of it as doing me a favour.”</p><p>It’s her turn to sigh heavily, but she takes a wincing sip.</p><p>“Better?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Give it a minute.”</p><p>She puts the glass down on his coffee table instead. “I’m sorry,” she offers. “I guess this is… a little dramatic.”</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>She grits her teeth, finding herself unable to look at him. “I told Katharine I didn’t need the space on her couch anymore.”</p><p>“Well, my offer still stands,” he says slowly. Touching a gentle hand to her elbow. She risks meeting his eyes, and can see clearly how badly he wants to hold her right now. How scared he is of sending her running instead.</p><p>She lets herself fold into his arms. Stiff at first, but there’s no point pretending it doesn’t feel good. She relaxes after a moment, burying her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she says again, muffled by his shirt.</p><p>“I know.” He’s nuzzled into her hair again. She’s not sure he’s even aware that he does that, when he holds her close. It’s like that face he has when they’re together alone. Like she’s something he’s been aching for. It makes no sense when all she brings is chaos, but she’s past caring about why. And what she really wants, right now, is to lose herself in any other feeling than this black despair.  </p><p>She holds him tighter. “Can I… make it up to you?”</p><p>“Oh, probably,” he says. Drawing back a little, to see her face, "I mean, If that's what you want." </p><p>She leans up, pressing her lips to his and giving him his answer. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Fantasy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is this what you really want?”</p><p>He stops kissing her for a moment, drawing back so he can see her face. His hands still under her clothes. “Yes?” he hazards, looking at her like she’s lost her mind.</p><p>“I just meant– If you wanted I could be different. Or – or we could do things differently.”</p><p>A frown creases between his eyebrows. “Do you not like−?”</p><p>“No! No. I just… If I’m making things up to you, is there something that you like that I don’t know?”</p><p>“Like what?” he asks. Possibly only to torture her, she can’t quite tell.</p><p>“I don’t know! You just... You talk a lot about hookers and blackjack and blow! Your movies have… an element to them. I just wasn’t sure if−”</p><p>“Ohh,” he says, as if he’s only now just catching on. She isn’t remotely fooled. “You mean dirty stuff.”</p><p>She winces at his phrasing, somehow only making this whole debacle worse. “If that’s what you’re into?” she tries, struggling to keep a note of panic out of her voice.</p><p>“Ruth…” He’s trying too, in his case not to laugh. “Calm down.”</p><p>“I’m sorry! I just−”</p><p>“Potentially opened a whole can of worms? Relax. I’m not that unconventional. At least, I don’t think so. I mean, I probably got any of the weirder stuff out of my system a long time ago.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>He presses his lips together, no longer quite so sure how to proceed. “What do you want me to say? What are <em>you</em> into?”  </p><p>“Nothing! Just – just normal things−”</p><p>“Hmm.” He’s looking less convinced but considerably more curious.</p><p>“I like… characters, sometimes,” she confesses, under the weight of his stare.</p><p>“Well, that figures,” he says, rolling his eyes.</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>“I dunno. I’m not a very good actor.”</p><p>It’s true, she’s seen him attempting nonchalance on camera. She supresses her own laugh at the memory. “You don’t take direction?”</p><p>“Depends on whose giving it,” he returns, and kisses her again.</p><p>*</p><p>She likes characters because she’s an actress, yes. And because sometimes it’s considerably easier to be someone, <em>anyone</em>, other than herself.</p><p>“Ruth?” he says, and there’s a real nervousness there, blindfolded as he is. He tugs against an elderly necktie and his own shirt, impromptu bonds she’s used to tie him to the headboard. Muscles strain in his bare arms, surprised to find her knots are solid. Of course he could probably escape if he <em>really</em> wanted to, but this is his end of the fantasy. Finding himself at her mercy. “Ruth, are you still fucking there?”</p><p>Ruth Wilder lost her shitty job waiting tables today. Fucked up a friendship. “There is no Ruth here,” she says icily. “Only Zoya.”</p><p>She watches his Adam’s apple bob. She’s long harboured a suspicion there’s something in his libido that enjoys a villainess, particularly one with a penchant for high-cut leotards. Not forgotten either, is the time Tom Grant tried to take Zoya from her; to take all of this power and swagger and turn her into a plaything… This time, she's in control.</p><p>“What do you want, Zoya?” he asks, turning his head to try and work out exactly where she is in the room.</p><p>“It has been long time since I have taken lover,” she says. “American men are weak. Soft.” She climbs onto the bed and he moves instinctively to try and touch her, rattling the headboard as he pulls against his bonds. “But… I like fuck-you attitude of this one. Perhaps he is man enough to satisfy me.” She runs her hand up over his thigh, his stomach. Tracing her fingers through the dusting of hair across his chest, but keeping the rest of herself out of reach for now.</p><p>“Well, if you want to know how the ride handles, you’re going to have to do a little more than stroke the bodywork,” he scoffs. But the hairs on his arm, standing on end, give him away.</p><p>“You think you can handle noble Soviet bear?” she returns, continuing with her feather-light touch. Taking her hand away eventually, and bringing herself close enough to brush her bare breasts against his chest. Almost but not <em>quite</em> sitting in his lap.</p><p>He lets out a shaky breath. “I mean, there's one way to find out...”</p><p>She kisses him, hard, and he meets her with equal ferocity. The bed clunks again as he forgets his arms are still tied, and she breaks their kiss abruptly. “Maybe,” she says, “but on <em>my</em> terms, capitalist dog. Not yours.” His erection is standing proud between them now, and she takes him in her mouth before he can think of another snappy come-back. He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan instead, as she moves up and down the length of him. Moaning when she stops and pulls away from him again. “What was that?” she mocks. “I didn’t hear.”</p><p>“Fuck,” he says, pulling more insistently against her knots with his right arm, still to no avail. “I want to touch you. Please.”</p><p>She does sit in his lap this time, pressing her body to his as they kiss. His hips buck underneath her, but it’s easy to deny him what he’s seeking when he can’t move as freely as she can. They make out roughly instead. Until she’s panting breathless herself, and so wet for him she’s not really sure why she’s denying herself any longer.</p><p>She draws the loop of the knot holding his right arm free, and he pulls off his blindfold. Wearing that face underneath it she remembers from the airport hotel; like they’re caught together in some maelstrom of desire. He rips off the second restraint and takes hold of her at last. Gripping her hips as he guides her down onto his cock; holding her tightly as he thrusts desperately inside her.</p><p>“You win,” she mumbles, mouth smeared against his as they move together. Herself again now, all pretence between them stripped away. “Whatever you want, I−”</p><p>“Turn around,” he growls, and her stomach somesaults in curious excitement at what she’s unleashed in him. She withdraws and turns away, on her hands and knees. His hands squeeze her hips again and he takes her from behind. “I want you, Ruth,” she hears him says. Voice tight as he fucks her hard. “I just want you.”</p><p>*</p><p>Sam is asleep. The deep, close-to-unconscious slumber of a man thoroughly well-fucked. She watches the slow rise and fall of his chest hazily and knows a moment of bitter satisfaction. She might be a failure at just about everything else in life, but it turns out – at least as far as he’s concerned – she’s pretty damn good in bed.</p><p>She frowns at the thought; the sort of mingled self-hate and misplaced pride the man lying next to usually her favours. Maybe he’s rubbing off on her. That or sarcasm is sexually transmissible, she thinks with a snort.  </p><p>Probably she should slip away now and go find her own sleep in the guestroom. It’d be stupid to make a habit of this if she’s going to play the role of houseguest rather than – <em>What? Girlfriend? Live-in-lover?</em> She wrinkles her nose at the thought. Still, she doesn’t move. Lying close enough to feel the warmth of him – the opportunity to really <em>look</em> at him without his awkwardness at scrutiny getting in the way – she enjoys it more than she’d care to admit. And it’s not the only guilty pleasure, if she’s being honest.</p><p>She likes the way he makes love to her. Just the thought of those words sends a rush of embarrassed warmth from her cheeks to her toes, but they’re the right ones, for a change. Yes, he’s good with his mouth and his hands; better still with his cock. But that’s not what sets him apart from the majority of her mixed-at-best prior history of romantic encounters. The way he looks at her, says her name. The way her fucks her like the world is about to end, and how he holds her so tenderly in the aftermath, when it hasn’t. The way he takes a moment just to breathe in the smell of her hair...</p><p>And she’s been with other men that wanted more of her than a one-night-stand. That loved her, even. She’s pretty sure that Russell… did. Almost certain.</p><p>But Sam might be the first person who wants to dive headlong into the <em>oblivion</em> of her. Who knows exactly who she is, the very worst parts of her being, and loves her anyway.</p><p>It can’t be good. Those parts of herself that she pretends don’t exist most of the time, until they overwhelm the rest of her personality and drive her to acts of unfathomable stupidity. They need pushing down, not bringing out into the light. Squashing out of existence−</p><p><em>And how well has that approach been working?</em> she asks of herself, in the quiet. Nothing but the soft sound of his breathing; the room cast in yellow light by the bedside lamp she hasn’t turned down yet because she likes watching him sleep. Maybe he had a point, comparing her to the other addicts he’s negotiating sobriety with right now. Maybe pretending she doesn’t have a problem isn’t the best way to actually <em>deal</em> with it.</p><p>She yawns and snuggles closer to him. Risks slipping her hand into his open palm, curling her fingers around his. He sighs in his sleep but doesn’t wake.</p><p>The guest bedroom can wait, she decides, and turns out the light.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Interruption</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam’s alarm is his radio, clicking into life with the tail end of a station stinger and the grim mania of giggling breakfast DJs. He reaches around awkwardly to hit the snooze button.</p><p>“You alright?” Voice softer than she’s used to; eyes kind.</p><p>“No,” she says, honest for a change in the pale morning light. “But… I think I will be.”</p><p>He nods, as if what she’s said makes sense to him at least. “You want breakfast?”</p><p>“You don’t have to−” she starts, automatic, and he immediately kisses her quiet.</p><p>“Will you give it a rest with that?”</p><p>“With what? Good manners?”</p><p>“It’s not polite to insult my hospitality. If you’re not hungry−”</p><p>“I am… hungry.”</p><p>His moustache twitches his amusement. “Was that so hard?”</p><p>“Yes,” she says, stubborn. Earning herself a chuckle and then another slow and lazy kiss.</p><p>And he is <em>happy</em>, she realises. Because of her. Here with him now. There’s something ironic about the total disintegration of her life being at the root of that happiness, but it seems a shame to dwell on it right now. When his fingers are tangled in her hair, skin warm against hers, and – if she puts the reasons she finds herself here out of her head – she could almost be happy too.</p><p>*</p><p>Sam’s alarm is a radio, and it clicks into life the next day and the next and the next. He snoozes it twice on the mornings he has places to be. Kills it entirely the day he doesn’t, rolling her into his arms instead. He runs his showers scalding hot. The water turns her pale skin delicate pink when she joins him but leaves him untouched. When he shaves he buzzes a new Philips electric over his stubble, rather than the old-fashioned safety razor she might have imagined. His vanity is his hair, she learns. Every morning meticulously parting what’s on top and sweeping the silver-streaked sides back with his comb. The habit of the past thirty-odd years, she doesn’t doubt. In the theater of her mind she travels back in time; imagining him as a skinny twenty-something adopting that style for the first time. It makes her feel strange and sad, considering all those years of his history he doesn’t talk about. Until she realises he knows nothing of Mister C’s Steakhouse or games at the Rosenblatt Stadium either; of the years she spent trying and failing to curl Farah Fawcett flicks into her stubbornly resistant hair.  </p><p>Sam’s alarm is a radio, and the guest room continues to wait. She unloaded the essentials from the trunk of her car and told herself: <em>tomorrow</em>. Somehow it never seems to come. Days pass in a haze instead, of trial shifts and sub-let viewings. He’s working late on pre-production for Justine’s movie while she’s serving coffee; wiping down tables. Somehow her plans to slip away and sleep alone are always undone. A mug of hot chocolate he’s made for her return asks that she collapse down next to him, exhausted on the couch instead. A Hitchcock movie on TV that she can’t help but watch and dissect along with him. She knows he doesn’t want her to sleep elsewhere anyway, and it makes it all too easy to give in, every time; follow him to bed instead. To where he’s greedy for her, in the dark. Fucking her soft and sweet and hot and heavy and most of the ways in between. Whatever she asks for; whatever she offers. And it’s not just the sex. It’s the way his hand rests on her hip in the aftermath, the way he curls around her. It’s his nose in her hair and his hand cupping her face. Savouring her, like a man who knows that some day soon his luck will run out.</p><p>*</p><p>On Sunday he makes good on his promise of a date: an exhibition at the LATC followed by dinner at an Italian restaurant. From the outside it appears unassuming, but it serves food that deserves the three hours they linger inside, amicably bickering over the state of modern art. They still end up on his couch, sitting with her shoulder pressed against his, as he picks through proposed script edits and she memorises lines for yet another audition come Monday.</p><p>“Is this what it would have been like?” Her own voice surprises her, breaking the industrious quiet between them.</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>“In Vegas,” she continues, almost dreamlike. “If I hadn’t – if I’d have said yes.”</p><p>“Oh.” He turns to look at her. “No.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“I think we’d have tried to keep things looking professional,” he explains. “Not be seen together.”</p><p>“But we were together all the time!”</p><p>“I know, I know, but… you wouldn’t have wanted to be seen coming out of my room. Shit like that.” He raises his eyebrows, daring her to disagree.</p><p>“So, <em>you</em> think we’d have been sneaking around.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He puts down his script, mischief around his mouth as he leans closer. “I mean, it might have been fun…”  </p><p>“Only you would think that.”</p><p>“What, you don’t think it would have been exciting?”</p><p>“No! And there were… no secrets out there. The whole casino would have known.”  </p><p>“So?”</p><p>She laughs at this assessment and lets him kiss her. “I think you might be a bad influence.”</p><p>“True. But I’m working on it.”</p><p>She might ask how, as his lips meet hers again. There’s nothing virtuous in the weight of his body against hers as he tips her backwards onto the cushions, or the look in his eyes. But then again she’d be a hypocrite – eagerly unbuttoning his faded shirt, her fingers finding his belt buckle.</p><p>It’s patently ridiculous, to be fucking him on the couch when his bedroom is less than six feet away, but there’s an undeniable thrill to it. Clothes pushed aside and panting. Words tumble out of his mouth as they move together; <em>please, fuck, yes. </em>And her name on his lips. There’s been something in the way he says it for a long time now that squeezes her heart.</p><p>“Sam,” she breathes in his ear in return, and he makes a groan in response that leaves her almost sure he feels the same way−</p><p>−and a curious, scrabbling metallic noise, almost too quiet to be worthy of her attention. Something in her hindbrain gives it context, and realisation dawns with a trill of heart-stopping terror at the <em>exact</em> same moment the front-door opens.</p><p>“Hey!” calls the voice of Justine. “Thought I’d surpri− oh my <em>God</em>!”  </p><p>She spins on her heel; the door slamming shut again behind her before either one of them can really react.</p><p>“Fuck,” manages Sam, shakily, after a moment of mortified silence. “<em>Fuck</em>!” Pulling away; redressing himself with frantic haste.</p><p>“Oh, God,” she says, sick with shame as she does the same. Goosebumps on her skin at the sudden cold his withdrawl freights. “I’m sorry, I−”</p><p>“She didn’t fucking call,” he replies, with a shake of his head. “Don’t−Just−Just stay fucking there−”</p><p>He’s managed to get his shirt tucked into his pants, although his glasses are still where he put them down on the coffee table mere minutes ago. The door crunches open-and-shut again, as he races after his daughter, and she is alone.</p><p>“Fuck,” she says softly. He knows her well enough at least, telling her to stay, because every instinct is <em>screaming</em> at her right now to leave. She considers her options for a moment and then moves all in a rush. Whether she stays or she goes, the pile of her belongings in what is suddenly very much <em>Justine’s</em> room needs dealing with.</p><p>She can hear them outside as she scrabbles to gather her things.</p><p>“See, this is why you fucking <em>call</em>−”</p><p>“No, this is why you have a fucking bedroom door! If you give me a key I’m not just some <em>guest</em>. Either I live here or I don’t−”</p><p>“Alright, okay! Jesus…”   </p><p>It’s not exactly subtle, the battered suitcase and pair of elderly holdalls that comprise the sad extent of her life right now, piled up by the couch when she’s done. Still, better than the alternative, she thinks wildly, biting her thumb.</p><p>The door opens again without warning, and Sam shuffles in first. Wearing a particular expression of gritted-teeth contrition she recognises all too well. “Well,” he says, “I’m not sure this could get any more fucking awkward...”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she tries again, as Justine follows him in.</p><p>“No, no. This one’s… this one is probably on me,” he says, grudgingly. “Uh. Does anyone else want coffee?”  </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>Something about their replies in unison breaks some of the tension. Justine catches her eye at last, returning her uncomfortable smile. “I mean,” she says, as Sam stumps into the kitchen, “I guess that was <em>one</em> way to find out you guys are dating…”</p>
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